


somewhere, stars shine down on you.

by orphan_account



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, however: trigger warning for suicide, i chose not to use archive warnings because they're dead but there are descriptions of death, i don't think they're that graphic, more info in the notes, slight angst, the beginning's sorta iffy i promise it gets better once you get past it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23182375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sometimes Brendon regrets saying that he'd prefer the violin over the piano, wishes that he’d chosen the less portable instrument, or that he had refused playing any instrument altogether.But he knows he wouldn’t have been able to.Music is what defines him, what keeps him alive. It’s his religion, for lack of a better term. People say that he lives and breathes it, and that isn’t too far from the truth.
Relationships: Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie, implied Jon Walker/Spencer Smith
Kudos: 8





	somewhere, stars shine down on you.

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING FOR SUICIDE, MENTIONS OF A SHOOTING. NOT suicide attempt, but suicide. the boys are already dead, but there is an explanation on why they're in the place they are (some weird purgatory-esque place).
> 
> i'm back! with another fic that was supposed to be two different fics but one day i decided "fuck it" and mushed the two of them together, resulting in... this thing. happy reading!

It had started off simple enough.

Brendon’s mom had asked him if he would prefer playing the violin or the piano.

“Violin,” 4-year-old Brendon had said, standing up on the couch and bouncing, trying to be as tall as his mom.

Brendon’s mom had merely nodded and given Brendon a smile.

That’s all Brendon remembers about the moment that would change his life, for better or for worse. And honestly, the only part he remembers clearly was the part where he’d uttered that simple six letter, two syllable word. He hadn’t known the potential it had, how it would shape his life for as long as he’d be able to remember. How it would be the one thing that people would use to identify him.

Sometimes Brendon regrets saying those words, wishes that he’d chosen the less portable instrument, or that he had refused playing any instrument altogether.

But he knows he wouldn’t have been able to.

Music is what defines him, what keeps him alive. It’s his religion, for lack of a better term. People say that he lives and breathes it, and that isn’t too far from the truth.

~*~

Brendon busked sometimes, just left the house with nothing but his violin case.

He would get in his car, drive to a place teeming with people, take out his violin, and play.

He made less money on some nights than others, but it was fine, because he was still young, living under his dad’s roof, and everyone has off nights. He ignored the fact that he made more money when he was thirteen and still learning how to play, sound still not developed fully.  


Because everyone adores younger children playing an instrument, coos over them. Says things like, “Oh, how cute! He must really love violin to be playing it out here. My, the violin is such a _lovely_ hobby. So classic.”  


Brendon wanted to make a living off music, wanted to spend the rest of his life immersed in it.

Whenever he had said this out loud and added that he wanted to make music his major, somebody would just chuckle and say, “Why not aim higher? Music’s an easy major anyways.”

Brendon would just smile stiffly and excuse himself at that point, pretending not to hear that person adding, “Being a starving musician is really no way to live.”

Brendon stopped talking about what he wanted to major in after that.

~*~

“You’re okay at violin, I guess.”

The words echo through his head, lodging themselves into his brain, embedded painfully.

What’s that even supposed to mean?

The words hurt.

They hurt because they come from the very person who had asked if he wanted to play the instrument.

Because he’s nothing without the violin. There’s no future, no way of being able to live a life without the violin. He can’t make money, can’t unwind, can’t release stress without it. It’s cathartic, playing Bruch, Lalo, Mendelssohn, hell, sometimes even Mozart, overrated as he is.

Brendon loves music, he really, really does. But sometimes, he doubts himself.

He doubts that he’s actually any good at playing the violin. Sure, he can coax sounds out of it, which is better than what the majority of the world can do, but that majority is good at something other than the violin. Better than good. And maybe at more than one thing.

He can coax sounds out of the wooden instrument, can utilize his bow, can play all the right notes and rhythms, but can he really play? Can he express emotions through sound and sound alone? Can he move even a single person in the world, can he make them think that he’s doing more than putting the bow on the string and pulling it across while his fingers dance on the fingerboard?

Can he make himself happy with the sounds he lets out?

Brendon doesn’t know. So he practices.

Practices until he has indents in his fingers from the strings, and keeps going, ignoring the dull pain in the tips of his fingers. Ignores the slightly more acute pain when he slides up to a note an inch away from the end of the fingerboard, the skin on his pinky in danger of getting cut from the thinnest and highest string on the far right, the E string.

But he makes sure that doesn’t happen, because he needs his pinky finger to play.

~*~

Sometimes Brendon’s friends say that he doesn’t have a life.

Like his roommate Spencer Smith, who doesn’t seem to understand that music  _ is  _ Brendon’s life. Or, well, what’s left of it.

“Spencer, we’re  _ dead. _ Neither of us have lives anymore, not since we died and got put into this weird fucking purgatory-ass place that’s made specifically for - and I emphasize this -  _ dead  _ high schoolers.” (Brendon, upon first arriving, had asked around and learned that the only people who were around were people around the ages 14 through 19, and the ones who had been willing to disclose their ways of death had all died in unfair circumstances.)

“It’s an  _ expression, _ Brendon,” Spencer says, his gray-blue eyes exasperated, but not cold. “Please? Just tonight. One night. I want you to meet Ryan and Jon.”

Brendon shakes his head, frowning. “You know I have orchestra rehearsal.”

Spencer pouts. “Can’t you skip?” He asks, knowing the answer already.

“No,” is Brendon’s curt reply, the one he’s given so many times to the exact same question over and over.

Spencer groans, flopping back on the couch. “Please? I’m not even asking at this point. I’m fucking  _ begging. _ I  _ really _ want you to meet them.” He pauses. “I’ll even tell you what landed me here.”

Spencer’s not one to throw the word ‘begging’ around lightly. Brendon also doesn’t know why Spencer’s in this place full of dead teens. Brendon gives this a thought, and eventually his curiosity wins out. “Fine,” he relents. “How did you get here?”

Spencer shrugs. “Got shot in a school shooting. Right in the head, just-” He forms a gun with his hand, and brings it up to his head. “Bang.”

“Oh. Shit,” Brendon says, at a loss for what to say.

“Yeah,” Spencer says, half-laughing. “Sorta fucked up, huh?”

Brendon just nods dumbly. “I’m- I’m sorry. For how you died.”

Spencer shakes his head. “S’okay. You had nothing to do with it.” He takes out his phone and waves it around. “I’m gonna text Jon and Ryan. Lunch okay?”

“Sure,” Brendon says, groaning inwardly as he remembers what he agreed to. “I have to scram. See you later.”

“‘Kay,” Spencer says, grinning wide as he texts.

Brendon sincerely hopes this wasn’t a bad idea.

When Brendon comes back from rehearsal three and a half hours later, Spencer looks up and grins.

“Next Saturday, 10 AM,” he states, because he’s a shithead who can function when he wakes up before noon, and plans his events accordingly. “Dinner’s in the fridge,” he adds.

Brendon sighs. “Thanks. Don’t expect me to be fully awake unless you give me a billion cups of coffee.”

Spencer smiles crookedly. “I don’t.”

Brendon groans and trudges towards the fridge to get whatever Spencer decided to make.

Saturday comes way too soon in a blur of exhaustion, extra rehearsals, bright stage lights, and more exhaustion.

On Saturday morning, Brendon drags himself out of bed at 9:30 AM with a groan, stumbling into the kitchen.

“Good morning!” Spencer chirps, way too chipper.  _ Morning people, _ Brendon thinks with faux disgust. His lips curl up slightly as Spencer shoves a cup of coffee towards him.

“Terrible morning,” Brendon grumbles as Spencer snorts. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“You won’t wake up otherwise,” Spencer states matter-of-factly as he slides a piece of bread and a bowl of fruit towards Brendon. “Keep some room for lunch.”

“First off, you’re paying for me, and second, there are three hours until lunch. I think I’ll be fine.”

“Less than three. And roughly fifteen minutes until we’re leaving. Chop chop!” Spencer grins with a twinkle in his eye that makes Brendon think that agreeing to lunch may have been an incredibly, preposterously, ridiculously bad idea.

Brendon chugs the rest of his coffee and clunks the mug down onto the table with a grimace. “You  _ so _ owe me lunch for the rest of my life.”

Spencer makes a face. “Only if you wind up hating Jon and Ryan.”

Brendon sighs as Spencer parks in front of a record store, eyeing the building and thinking about how he could be practicing his orchestra music right this moment.

“They’re going to meet us here,” Spencer says, getting out of the car. “Don’t get cold feet now.”

Brendon decides not to dignify that with a response, grudgingly getting out of the car.

When he walks into the record store, Brendon notices two things: one, that the place is ridiculously large, and two, that Spencer has grabbed his wrist and is making a beeline towards two people standing together, having what seems like an intense discussion.

“What-” Brendon splutters, brain catching up to his legs, which had started moving without his green light.

“Come on,” Spencer throws a grin over his shoulder, a gleam in his eye.

_ Evil, _ Brendon grumbles in his head as he turns his gaze onto the two men. One has a scraggly beard and is wearing blue jeans, a plain shirt, and a kind smile. Oh, and flip flops. The other is more of an eyeful to take in; he’s wearing an extremely elaborate outfit that seems to consist of a button up shirt, a vest, a scarf, and a jacket, with a pair of skinny jeans held up by a studded belt. He’s also extremely pretty and seems to pull off the (ridiculously, charmingly odd) outfit with ease. Brendon sort of hopes he’s a dick; otherwise he’s fucked. As he and Spencer get close, he notices that the two of them are actually a lot younger than he’d thought they were; they’re actually around his age, maybe 16 or 17.

The two people are so immersed in their debate that they don’t notice the rapidly approaching Spencer, who lets go of Brendon when they’re around five feet behind one of them.

Brendon stops as soon as Spencer lets go and watches Spencer, who has flung his body towards Cowboy and has hung on in a hug, which Brendon knows from experience is ridiculously tight.

Stick Boy jumps a bit, then relaxes once he realizes who it is. He turns, a small smile growing on his face. “Spencer, please stop trying to scare me. It’s not going to work.”

Spencer snorts, giving Interesting Outfit Choices a noogie then letting go. “You jumped, it totally worked.” He barrels on before Vest and Scarf can protest. “I brought a friend!” He announces, waving a hand towards where Brendon’s still standing, half hiding behind a rack of records.

Brendon inches out, trying not to feel like a show pony as everyone’s heads swivel to look at him. He stands up straighter, trying to act braver than he feels.

“Did you drag him here?” Scarf Boy asks, disentangling himself from Spencer. Spencer does something that Brendon can only describe as hem-hawing.

“Are you sure he’s only a friend?” Flip Flops asks, giving Brendon a quick look before focusing on Spencer.

Spencer flushes a (truly impressive) shade of red, and shakes his head frantically. “No! He’s just- he’s a friend. Not anything more. That’s just… no.”

Brendon raises an eyebrow. “Glad to know you think so highly of me,” he mutters.

Flip Flops lets out a warm laugh, sweeping Spencer up into a hug. “Just fucking with ya,” he winks at a still red Spencer, then extends a hand towards Brendon. “I’m Jonathan Jacob Walker, commonly called Jon. Nice to meet you!”

Brendon shakes the guy’s hand, flashing him a practiced smile. “I’m Brendon Urie.” He looks at Spencer. “Spencer didn’t mention that he wanted me to meet his boyfriend.”

Spencer lets out some kind of indignant squawk, glaring at Brendon in a way that implies he’s going to pay for this later. “He’s not-”

“Sure, Spencer,” Jon croons as he slides his arm over Spencer’s shoulders.

The other boy rolls his eyes at their antics, then offers a hand to Brendon, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I’m Ryan.” When Brendon takes his hand, Ryan leans in closer, then whispers, “They’re totally married. Don’t tell them I said that.”

Brendon’s heart skips a beat, then resumes beating faster than ever, and he realizes that he may be slightly fucked. He manages a shaky smile at Ryan, who’s closer to him than anybody has ever been in about three years, then abruptly takes a step back.

Ryan steps back, too, and the brief flash of disappointment across his face has to be Brendon’s imagination - why would anybody be interested in  _ him, _ of all people? - because Ryan’s smiling easily like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t skewed the entirety of Brendon’s world, like he hadn’t obliterated all of Brendon’s walls with a single action.

“You guys wanna actually look at the records now?” Spencer’s voice interrupts Brendon’s thoughts, and he nods his assent with the others.

Once Brendon finds the classical music section, he wanders away from everyone else. Then he finds out that there’s a sheet music section, and he gets completely lost trying to decide on which version of the Mendelssohn E minor violin concerto is closer to his, since his most likely got stolen by one of those Alexes. Probably Asshole Alex, since he doesn’t give a shit about Brendon and his well-being. Well, not like anybody does.

Brendon realizes that he’s been staring at the cover of the one of the booklets for a while now, and tries to ignore the clenching feeling in the pit of his stomach by trying to find the differences in the versions. A sense of panic is slowly coming over him, and he absentmindedly notices that his fingers are shaking as he tries to turn the page

“Hey,” a soft voice says next to Brendon’s ear.

Brendon jumps and drops all the music, and with a mind-numbingly loud fluttering of paper, everything is on the floor.

Brendon immediately drops down to the floor to start picking up the papers, but he hears a laugh, and he starts shaking, sure that whoever it is, they’re laughing at him.

His vision starts blurring, but he keeps picking up the papers with shaky hands, putting them in a neat stack to organize later, hoping that there’s no employee coming to chew him out. There’s a murmuring that might be someone talking, but he doesn’t register that until someone crouches down next to him.

“Brendon?” Ryan asks, tilting Brendon’s head up to look at him. Brendon tears his gaze away from Ryan’s concern-filled one, reaching his hands out to reach for more of the papers.

“Brendon, hey,” Ryan murmurs, catching Brendon’s hands in his own. “Breathe, focus on my voice.”

Brendon clings onto Ryan’s hands, eventually managing to bring his breathing and heart rate under control.

“Papers,” he mutters, still expecting an employee to start reprimanding him.

“Do you want me to help pick up the papers?” Ryan asks softly.

Brendon nods, but immediately regrets it when Ryan lets go of his hands and moves away. To his surprise, Ryan comes back and drapes something warm over his shoulders. “Just stay here, B.” Ryan says. Brendon looks up at the nickname, and Ryan smiles at him before gathering up the papers in an efficient manner.

Catching a scent of vanilla, Brendon relaxes into the jacket. Before he knows it, Ryan’s in front of him. “Are you feeling better now?” Ryan asks, reaching out a hand to help Brendon up.

Brendon nods. “Th- thanks,” he stutters, taking the hand and standing up, still holding on to the jacket.

Ryan just shrugs and drapes an arm across Brendon’s waist. “It was nothing. Anybody with any common sense would have done the same. I’m glad you’re feeling better, though.” He beams at Brendon. “Let’s go find Spencer and Jon. You can keep the jacket.”

God, Brendon is completely and  _ utterly _ fucked.

Later, in their apartment, Spencer turns to Brendon. “Well?” He asks with an expectant grin on his face. “What’d you think of them? Especially Ryan.” He winks. “He seemed pretty fond of you.”

Brendon side-eyes Spencer. “What do  _ you _ think of Jon?”

Spencer splutters. “Unimportant!”

Brendon just rolls his eyes. “Sure. I’m going to go practice. You should finish your essay that you’ve been griping about.”

Spencer looks aghast. “Why would I do  _ that?” _

Brendon just shakes his head, a small smile on his face, then leaves the room to practice.

~*~

“We’re going out for lunch,” Spencer announces about a week later.

Brendon makes a face. “But-”

“Brendon,” Spencer interrupts. “You’ve been practicing nearly 30 hours a week. That’s way too much.”

“No it’s not,” Brendon argues.

Spencer huffs. “Yes, it is. That’s more than four hours a day. How do you even find shit to practice for that long?”

“You just-” Brendon starts as Spencer talks over him.

“You can’t say no. Ryan’s going to be there.”

Brendon bites his lip, chews it for a second. “Fine.”

The moment Spencer and Brendon walk into the diner, the bell attached to the door jingling merrily, Ryan and Jon spring up and wave them over to a booth in the corner.

“Hey!” Ryan greets, grinning at Brendon, eyes warm. “Glad you could make it.”

Brendon gives a small smile. “Me too,” he says, sliding in next to Ryan.

“Nice jacket,” Ryan murmurs.

Brendon flushes. “Thanks. You said I could keep it, so-”

“I did,” Ryan confirms. “And it looks way better on you than it ever did on me. I’m happy you wore it.”

Brendon glows with those words, and even Jon’s playful remark of, “With that smile, one would think that you got laid, Urie,” can’t get rid of the glow.

~*~

The lunches with the four of them become a nearly daily occurrence, but one day Jon’s phone buzzes halfway during lunch. When he looks at it, he blanches and is already halfway out of his seat. “Shit, I gotta fly. Forgot about a photoshoot somebody scheduled with me.”

Spencer’s face falls a bit, and Brendon’s sure he’s not the only one who caught it, as Ryan asks, “You want Spencer to drive you in his car? My clunker’s, well, a clunker. I love her, but she’s slow as shit.”

Jon looks slightly relieved, as does Spencer. “Yeah, I- yeah. Thanks. C’mon, Spence, we gotta move.”

Brendon watches them go, lost in his thoughts, and jolts back when Ryan puts his hand on Brendon’s arm.

“Sorry I didn’t check with you, it’s just, well, Spencer and Jon are so fucking  _ blind-” _

“It’s fine,” Brendon says softly. “Besides, I’d rather spend time with just you, no offense to them.” He looks up at Ryan through his eyelashes, and dares to scoot closer to Ryan. Ryan raises an eyebrow at Brendon, smirking. “Yeah?”

Brendon grins. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Ryan says, winding his arm around Brendon’s waist. “I’d rather spend time with you, too.”

The rest of lunch passes pretty quickly, with the two of them getting to know each other better. Brendon’s pleasantly surprised by Ryan’s taste of music, and Ryan’s slightly horrified to find out that Brendon’s never seen Moulin Rouge, along with a few other classics.

“Seriously, never?” He asks in disbelief, the food in front of him forgotten as he boggles at Brendon.

Brendon nods in confirmation as he washes down his lunch with his drink. “I don’t think I’ve actually ever heard of it.”

Ryan nearly screeches, “ _ What?” _ He shakes his head frantically. “Nope. Nope, no, no, no, you have to see it. You’re coming back to mine.” He gets up and holds a hand out to Brendon, who stares at him.

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now! You’ve never watched it, and you have to see it as soon as possible. Come on!”

Brendon blinks. “The check-”

“Already paid for,” is Ryan’s prompt response. Doubt flickers across his face. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but-”

“I want to,” Brendon says in a rush, taking Ryan’s hand. Ryan beams, and he pulls Brendon up and pulls him into a swift kiss.

Brendon’s too shocked to respond, only coming back to himself when Ryan moves away.

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” Ryan says, dropping Brendon’s hand in a hurry. “I- mmph!”

His hand comes back up to rest on Brendon’s face as his other curls around Brendon’s neck, and Brendon smiles into the kiss.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Brendon says when they pull away, smiling, and presses another kiss to Ryan’s lips. “Now come on, I believe we have a few movies to watch.” He takes Ryan’s hand and motions towards the door. “Lead the way.”

Brendon manages to fall asleep around 10 minutes into the third movie he and Ryan had decided to watch. Ryan looks at Brendon’s sleeping face with adoration, content to admire the boy for eternity. Eventually, though, he gently shakes Brendon awake, who stirs.

“C’mon, B, get up,” Ryan says softly.

“Mmm… sleepy…” Brendon mumbles.

Ryan giggles, a light sound that has Brendon smiling dreamily. “I know, B, but you gotta get to your bedroom.”

“Don’t wanna… get up…” Brendon manages as his eyes start to drift close.

“Hmm…” Ryan trails off, and Brendon yelps as he’s suddenly picked up, bridal style. He giggles and wraps his arms around Ryan’s neck, who smiles and kisses him.

“Okay?” Ryan asks.

Brendon nods, eyes sliding shut already as Ryan carries him the short distance to his bedroom and situates him on the bed.

“There,” Ryan declares as he tucks the covers up around Brendon’s chin. “D’you want me to stay or leave?”

Brendon makes grabby hands at Ryan. “Stay,” he says, giving Ryan his best puppy eyes.

Ryan beams at Brendon and slips under the covers. Brendon immediately wraps his limbs around Ryan’s frame, and Ryan just smiles, closing his eyes. “You better sleep, though,” warns Ryan, albeit a little unnecessarily. Brendon’s already fast asleep, and Ryan cards his fingers through Brendon’s hair until he, too, falls asleep.

Brendon wakes up the next morning with a warm body next to his, and he smiles happily down at Ryan, who’s still asleep. Idly, he wonders how somebody perfect like Ryan got to be in this place that seems to be full of troubled teens who died too young.

Soon after, Ryan stirs, and Brendon grins down at him from where he’d been sitting up against the headboard. “Morning, sleeping beauty.”

Ryan just hums and reaches up slightly to peck Brendon on the lips. “Morning, love.” He sits up and stretches, and Brendon voices the question that had been floating around in his head ever since he’d woken up.

“How’d you get here?” He regrets it immediately, Ryan stopping mid-stretch with guarded eyes, and scrambles to apologize. “Shit, sorry, that wasn’t-”

“B, it’s fine,” Ryan says, giving Brendon a reassuring smile. “Caught me by surprise is all.”

Brendon nods, eyes wide, as he waits for a reply.

Ryan finishes his stretch, sighing. “Just the typical troubled teen, I guess. My mom ran away and left me with my dad, who decided I was only good to keep around if I would fetch him drinks. He’d beat me if I didn’t do it fast enough, and eventually that led me talking to the wrong people at school. I started getting into hard drugs, and one day I just… I just took too much, I guess.” He shakes his head, snorting. “Overdosed in a moldy hallway that smelled like piss.” He looks at Brendon, half a smile on his face. “What a way to go, huh?”

Brendon’s eyes are warm, and he just gazes at Ryan with such a look of melancholy on his face that Ryan has to break the tension.

“It’s okay, B, it’s all in the past now,” Ryan says, taking Brendon’s hand and kissing his knuckles. Brendon nods, shaken out of his daze. “What about you, if you don’t mind me asking?” Ryan has an inquisitive look on his face. “How did you wind up here?”

Brendon frowns. “I- It’s hard to explain.” His face lightens a bit as a thought occurs to him. “I can probably show you,” he says. Before Ryan can ask what he means, there’s black swirling at the edges of his vision, and he has just enough time to think,  _ right, _ before the darkness overtakes him.

The next thing he knows, he’s transparent and watching a younger Brendon, maybe 14 or 15, standing in a dark room and resolutely staring at a small night light in the corner. It takes Ryan another second to notice that there’s a woman talking.  _ My mom, _ something in his brain supplies, and he realizes that it’s the younger Brendon’s thoughts, somehow swirling through his head.

“You’re a failure, you know that?” Brendon’s mom asks. “Your dad’s punishing me and taking away my time to relax because you can’t do the bare minimum. You quit gymnastics because you said you were going to use the time to study, which… you haven’t done.” She doesn’t have to point anything out for Brendon to know what she’s talking about: the D in math that blinks brightly in his mind.

“By the way, what happened to the courses that you’re taking next year?” Brendon doesn’t answer. “When am I going to approve them? When are they due?” Brendon still doesn’t answer, watching as the small light gets increasingly more and more blurry. Tears start tracking down his face, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound.

She sighs. “How are you supposed to get colleges to notice you? What do you plan on doing?”

_ I don’t plan on living that long,  _ Brendon thinks.

“Your dad’s given up on you, says that you’re hopeless. I don’t- I haven’t given up on you.”

_ I have. Dad’s got the right idea. You should follow his lead, do what he tells you to. You always do that. Why aren’t you doing that now? _

“But I’m close. and I’m tired.”

_ YOU’RE tired? If you’re tired, I don’t know what the fuck I am. Dragging myself out of bed every single day to go to school and come back, spluttering and trying to swim in an ocean where everyone else has floaties. _

“I’m tired of being blamed for your failures, tired of you making me waste money on violin lessons when you’re not even going to practice.”

_ Then why spend money on lessons? _

An idea that had been hiding in the back of his mind finally reveals itself, and Brendon doesn’t flinch. _ If too much money is being spent on me, I’ll just kill myself. Then, all you have to do is spend a little more at the end for the funeral, and you can just cremate me instead of buying a casket. Much less money spent that way, and it’s easier anyways. Wouldn’t want to cause trouble. And bonus! Since I’ll be dead, you can sell the house and move to Europe and stay there all you want. I won’t be a burden anymore. _

Ryan creases his eyebrows, trying to put all the points together. When they start making a clear shape in his mind, his eyes widen, but he’s whisked away to another scene before he can start making sense of it.

The world reappears in front of him, again with young Brendon, who’s now sitting in front of a desk, a lamp casting shadows on his face.

Brendon shakes the pen he's holding and tries to write with it, face blank. Shaking his head, he picks out a different pen and starts writing with smooth, robot-like motions. At the top of the page, he writes, ‘what i have learned today.’

>   * _practicing the violin is the bare minimum i should be doing every day  
>    
>  _
>   * _my dear mother is tired of:_
> 

>   1.     1. _being told she is at fault for having a failure of a child_
>     2. _having to tell said failure to practice the violin every day. practicing is the least the failure should do, as violin lessons are expensive_
> 

>   * _practicing the violin is important because the failure quit gymnastics and violin is now the only thing the failure has left  
>    
>    
>  _
>   * _the failure quit gymnastics to study, which it hasn’t done_
> 

>   1.     1. _proven by the bad grades_
> 

>   * _it is only natural that a european citizen should return to europe when progress in the usa is no longer possible  
>    
>    
>  _
>   * _the failure’s mother and father will most likely start living in different places_
> 

>   1.     1. _the failure will be able to choose which place it would be allowed to stay at. however,_
> 

>   * _boarding schools exist, even on the east coast!_
> 

>   1.     1. _the failure will most likely be shipped off to one, as it is the only place it can go if it wants to go to an american college._
> 


With hollow eyes, Brendon closes the notebook, places it under his pillow, turns off the lights, and curls up on his side to go to sleep.

Ryan knows that the image of Brendon, tears drying on his face as he curls up small in his bed, will haunt him for some time to come, imprinted in his mind even as the scene swirls away.

Another scene smoothly takes its place; this time, Ryan’s on a balcony, watching young Brendon yet again.

“This was around four months later,” comes Brendon’s -  _ his _ Brendon’s - voice next to him. Ryan just nods silently and slips his hand into Brendon’s, who leans his head against Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan gives him a small smile, heart swelling with love for the boy.

Brendon sits on the balcony railing, eyes raking over the objects in front of him.

_ Note: check. Violin: check. _

He gives a humorless snort, lips curling up in a cynical snarl.

_ Fitting that there’s only one note. Nobody ever cared enough about me to warrant a note anyways. _

There’s a trace of regret in his features as he takes in the familiar shape of the violin case, but the remorse quickly turns into anger and sadness as familiar words echo around in his mind.

_ Not good enough… So much potential if you just practiced… So much money… You barely practice… How are you going to get colleges to notice? _

Brendon closes his eyes for a moment, then reopens them with a look of steely determination in his eyes. He stands up on the railing and looks down, then takes a breath and jumps, air thundering past his ears as he hurtles towards the pavement roughly 192 feet below him.

Lips curling up into a serene smile, Brendon closes his eyes and waits for impact.

_ It’s all over now. _

Those four words echo in Ryan’s mind, breaking his heart over and over again as he blinks, surprised to find tears in his eyes.

“Well, that was a fucking trip,” Brendon mutters drily, jolting Ryan out of his reverie.

Ryan’s eyebrows crease. “Brendon?”

Brendon just shrugs, looking down. He doesn’t speak for a while, and Ryan waits. “I used to cut,” Brendon says eventually, eyes finding Ryan’s.

Ryan’s face fills with grief. “Why?” He whispers.

Brendon huffs. “At first, it was a way to get the emotions out, to distract myself from the thoughts in my head, I guess. First time I cut was in sixth grade, with a pathetic excuse of a blade. Found something online, some comment, that said people cut by unscrewing the sharpening part of pencil sharpeners. That one didn’t really cut, never left scars that lasted long. Then I found a Swiss Army knife.” He falls silent, picking at his shirt.

“Are you sure you want to talk about this?” Ryan gathers up courage and moves closer, wrapping his arms around Brendon.

Brendon relaxes slightly in Ryan’s arms. “Yes. You, of all people, deserve to know why I… how I got here.”

“Okay,” Ryan says as he kisses Brendon’s forehead.

“I started because my mom started really getting on my case about college, and that was too much to me. I was terrified of rejection - still am - and the idea of applying for so many colleges and getting rejected was too much for me, especially in middle school. So one day after my mom had lectured me about one thing or another, I left the room, got a screwdriver, and unscrewed that pencil sharpener. Made a few cuts on my arms, and they stung enough that they took my mind off the anger.” Brendon frowns. “I guess that’s what made me keep cutting. The distraction, the floating of sorts. I kept cutting, but it was near summer, and pretty hot, and eventually somebody asked what the scratches on my arm were. I think I said they were from climbing a tree or something.

“I moved to my legs after that, since I never wore shorts anyways, but stopped after a while. I only relapsed twice, which is a small accomplishment.” Brendon smirks, the expression at odds with the sadness in his eyes. “Not that I gave myself much time to relapse a lot.

“The first time, it was because I’d gotten myself into a toxic relationship, but I didn’t start cutting until the last week of it. It started with us meeting online, then becoming friends. Then he asked me to be his boyfriend. I said no at first, but he asked again and I, like an idiot, said yes.

“He quickly started saying shit about how I was the only thing keeping him alive, and how if I ever broke up with him he’d kill himself. I told him not to, that I would jump off the roof if he did that too. He told me not to, that I was out of his league anyways, and that I shouldn’t lower myself down to his level. He stated some fucked up shit, like how he came up with a different personality for himself every single year.” Brendon rubs his eyes. “God, I was a fucking idiot.

“He also said ‘I love you’ a week into the relationship, and I said it back, because I didn’t know what else to say. But then he started using that against me too, saying that if I really loved him I would let him kill himself. I stopped talking to him then, leaving more and more time between my responses and his texts. Eventually I blocked him, but the damage had already been done. I’d already relapsed.” Brendon sighs and burrows into Ryan’s side, breathing hard.

“Take all the time you want, baby, I’m still here,” Ryan whispers. Brendon nods. After a few minutes, he speaks again, this time softer than ever.

“The second time I relapsed was second semester of freshman year, so ninth grade. The time I relapsed was… actually really similar to the first scene we saw, though it wasn’t as bad. Same old, same old, with my mom getting on my case about me not practicing and hinting at me being a failure. It still had to do with getting into colleges, though.” Brendon scoffs. “It always had to do with getting into colleges and getting them to notice me. She never realized the effect it had on me. She’d always ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up when she was yelling at me, and I’d have to restrain myself from yelling back, ‘dead,’ cliche as it was.

“The first cut when I relapsed was probably the worst one. I cut, and it immediately started welling with blood. I looked at it closer and it actually-” Brendon’s breath hitches and tears start running down his face, but he swallows and keeps going. “-actually looked like a deep cut, and I was scared, at first. But then I told myself that this was what I wanted. Wrapped and taped it up then went to sleep, and retaped it in the morning and went to school. It healed, after a while, but the skin remained scarred.

“The thing that kept me cutting that time was probably the fact that it - surprisingly - didn’t hurt that much, even though the clotted blood was so purple it was nearly black. I kept cutting all the way until my suicide. At that point my leg was a mess, full of scars that nobody ever noticed.” Brendon cracks a grim smile. “Well, people did notice, but they never cared enough to ask. Guess that was also a factor that contributed towards my death. The motif of people never caring enough to ask about this bruise, that cut, that scar, the attitude.” Brendon slumps down against Ryan’s chest, keeping quiet, and Ryan just hugs him tighter, kissing his forehead.

“I never thought I’d have this, you know,” Brendon says after a while, voice low. “Us.”

Ryan’s voice is soft when he speaks. “Why not?”

Brendon shrugs listlessly. “Told myself that nobody would want a fuckup like me. Everyone around me was getting into relationships. Fuck, even aromantic people were getting into some kind of relationship. Pretending to be married, calling each other pet names. The fact that people who don’t even  _ feel _ romantic emotions were finding partners just solidified the thought that I was a failure.” He sighs, closing his eyes and tilting his head down.

“Oh, Brendon, darling. Who wouldn’t love you?” Ryan asks, eyes filled with anguish as he tilts Brendon’s head up to meet his gaze.

“Myself,” Brendon says, resolutely staring down as tears start tracking silver down his cheeks.

Ryan stays silent, putting together the thoughts in his mind. “We can work on that,” he whispers eventually.

“We?” Brendon asks, eyes flicking up.

Ryan nods, a small, hopeful smile on his face. “And I’m here to tell you that you are lovable.”

Brendon scoffs, eyes moving back down. “Bullshit.”

“No, it’s not. Look at me, B.” Brendon looks into Ryan’s eyes. “You know why?”

Brendon shakes his head. “Why?” He asks, heart in his throat.

Each word is impossibly warm and full of love, and Ryan says them all with an air of finality. “Because I love you. And it’s damn easy to love you. I love how you always throw yourself into things, your smile, your body, you. I love all of you, B, don’t ever forget that.”

Brendon’s face splits into a small smile, and somewhere in his chest he can feel the embers of a previously extinguished fire start to stir and spark. “Really?”

Ryan nods, smiling as he wipes Brendon’s tears away. “Really.”

He yelps as Brendon whirls him up into a hug, face pressed into Ryan’s chest, but quickly brings his arms up to wrap around Brendon as well, a content smile on his face as he closes his eyes.

And somewhere up above their world, the stars blink and shine down softly upon the two.

_ fin. _

**Author's Note:**

> this piece is a bit darker than my others, but i felt it fit with my current position on life. as always, thank you for reading! feel free to comment if you have time, or drop a kudos if you don't (or simply just drop one because i manually typed out every single one of these tabs why did i do that)
> 
> stay safe, wash your hands, and keep yourself busy during this quarantine. if that means reading roughly 500k in a day, go for it! i'm honored to have been a part of your daily 500k :)


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